Paul Campenhaye, Specialist in Criminology/Chapter 3
CHAPTER III.
THE COVENT GARDEN FRUIT SHOP.
IT was two o’clock on a dull day in January. My faithful clerk, Killingley, was out; consequently, when the telephone bell began ringing furiously in the outer office I was obliged to respond to it myself. As I crossed the floor I expressed a firm wish that the call might not necessitate my immediate attendance anywhere, for I was hungry, and was on the point of setting off to the Ritz for lunch. But no man knows what he is going to hear when he picks up the receiver of a telephone.
“This is Mr. Campenhaye,” I said.
A voice which seemed a little familiar came along.
“I am Major Valentine. You remember me?” it said.
“Oh, yes, perfectly!” I answered.
“Mr. Campenhaye, will you come round at once—at once—to Vienna Mansions—number fifty-one?” said Major Valentine. “I want your assistance most urgently—a strange affair.”
“What is it?” I enquired.
That it was something out of the common I felt assured—Major Valentine’s voice was so very agitated.
“I do not know,” he answered. “But I fear it is murder—some subtle form of murder. Will you come?”
“At once!” I answered.
Within two minutes I was making my way out of Jermyn Street in a taxi-cab. Granted we had a fairly clear course, we should be at Vienna Mansions (one of those vast, barrack-like blocks of flats which have sprung up between Bloomsbury and Tottenham Court Road) within a quarter of an hour. Meanwhile I refreshed my memory about the man who had called me up so peremptorily. I knew little of Major Valentine. In fact, all that I had known until a few days previously could be put into one sentence—he was a man of good family and of considerable wealth, an officer in one of the Guards’ regiments, popular in Society, and of excellent record, and he had once employed me in a delicate case which concerned a brother officer who had got himself into a mess which Major Valentine was anxious to help him out of. That was all—all that was down under his name in the tablets of my memory.
During the past week, however, Major Valentine’s name had come before the public in a fashion which had made it somewhat notorious. The newspapers had suddenly announced his engagement to a popular young actress, Miss Hermione Braye, who had been one of the brightest stars in musical comedy for at least two seasons. The portraits of the Major and the Maid had been in all the illustrated papers, and their approaching marriage had formed a leading topic of conversation.
“Vienna Mansions—Vienna Mansions?” I said to myself as we sped along. “Ah, now I have it! Vienna Mansions is where Miss Hermione Braye lives. I hope she is not murdered.”
But all doubt on that point was set at rest when the taxi put me down at the chief entrance to the flats, where Major Valentine was awaiting me. He hurried me off to the lift.
“It’s most kind of you to come so quickly, Mr. Campenhaye!” he exclaimed. “There are the police here, and some Scotland Yard men, and police surgeons—but I wanted you. I felt that you would be more likely to”
I stopped him before we reached the lift. He was a big, muscular man, and I had heard of daring deeds of his during the South African War; but he was now trembling and shaken, and heavy beads of sweat were gathered on his forehead—in fact, he showed all signs of intense fear.
“Tell me what has happened?” I said.
“Yes, yes,” he said, “I’ll tell you! It’s Felicie, Miss Braye’s maid, you know. She’s dead—poisoned, I think. Yes, it must have been—poison. Must have been!”
“Take your time, Major,” I said.
He made an effort and pulled himself together.
“I’ll try to tell you,” he said, wiping his forehead. “You see, Miss Braye and her mother live here. They have four servants—cook, parlourmaid, housemaid, and Felicie, who was lady’s maid and Miss Braye’s dresser. This morning Mrs. Braye was out till lunch time; so was Miss Braye, who was shopping with me. According to the other servants, Felicie went into the dining-room, where the table was laid for lunch, about five minutes before Miss Braye and I came in—went in alone. They never heard anything, but we found her dead!”
“Dead!” I exclaimed.
“Stone dead!” he answered. “She had certainly not been dead many minutes—perhaps seconds—but she was gone, poor girl!”
“You were on the spot first, then,” I said. “Did you observe anything?”
“Nothing!” he replied with emphasis. “She just lay on the floor as if she’d suddenly sunk down. There was nothing else to observe.”
It seemed to me that the maid had probably died from heart failure, and I began to wonder why Major Valentine had attributed her death to murder by poison. But that was not the time to question him. I wanted to see things for myself.
“Let me go up,” I said.
Miss Braye’s flat—a large and commodious one—was a scene of unusual activity. There were several police officials there; there were two doctors; and there was my friend, Inspector Wyemond, from Scotland Yard, who smiled at the sight of me and presently drew me aside. In a quiet corner he tapped me familiarly on the arm.
“This is a case of much ado about nothing, Mr. Campenhaye,” he whispered. “I think Major Valentine must have lost his head in sending for us. There seems no doubt that the poor girl died from natural causes—heart failure. Of course, we can’t tell until there’s been an autopsy, as there will be. But that’s what I should say it is—a clear case of heart failure.”
I went with him to look at the dead girl, whose body was just about to be removed to the mortuary, and I gathered from the doctors that they shared Wyemond’s opinion as to the cause of death. And in a few minutes the body had been removed, the little crowd of officials had gone, and the flat seemed suddenly very quiet. Major Valentine looked at me enquiringly.
“You are wondering if I share their opinions. Major?” I said. “But I have not begun thinking about opinions yet. Take me into the dining-room.”
Now that the unwelcome visitors had left the flat and the dead woman’s body had been removed, the dining-room looked pretty much as all such rooms do look when people of taste and refinement live in them.
The table, gay with flowers, and shining with silver, was laid for three; on the sideboard were some dishes of fruit. One of these dishes contained a magnificent bunch of large golden-hued grapes; the sight of them, unusual just then, roused some chord of memory in me. Where had I seen grapes just like those, recently? I tried to think, but could not remember; never mind, it would come back, and there was more important business on hand. I turned to Major Valentine.
“I think you said that the maid’s body was discovered by you and Miss Braye?” I said.
“Well, as a matter of fact, Miss Braye found it,” he answered. “She came in first. I was hanging up my overcoat and hat in the hall there. I heard Miss Braye cry out in alarm and came in.”
“Where was the maid lying?” I asked.
“Just where you are now standing,” he replied. “You are on the exact spot.”
“That is to say, between the table and the sideboard,” I said. “You, of course, picked her up?”
“Yes,” he answered, with something of a shudder. “I lifted her on to that couch. She—she was quite warm, but I am sure she was dead then.”
“I think you said the door was shut—that Miss Braye opened it while you were taking off your coat and hat?” I said.
He nodded his reply.
“Are you sufficiently acquainted with the habits of the household to form any opinion as to why the maid came in here and shut the door on herself?” I asked him.
“Well, Mr. Campenhaye,” he answered with some hesitation, “if I am to tell you the truth, it flashed across me that Felicie had possibly entered to get a dram of brandy from the cellaret there in the sideboard.”
“Had you any reason for such a surmise?” I asked.
“Yes, I had,” he answered. “I caught her doing it one day recently. And before anything in that cellaret is touched, I shall insist upon a proper analysis being made.”
“You think some poison may have been introduced into whatever the cellaret contains, eh, Major?” I said. “Let us see what it does contain.”
However, the cellaret contained next to nothing. There was a small decanter of brandy, another of whisky; the glass stoppers had certainly not been removed from either that day. As for the rest, there were some bottles of sparkling hock and some of claret; every bottle was corked and sealed.
I closed the cellaret without comment. The Major regarded me expectantly.
“Now, who is the best person to give me some information as to the dead woman’s movements this morning?” I asked.
“I should say Florence, the parlourmaid,” replied Major Valentine. “I know she was the last to see Felicie alive.”
“Then bring Florence here to me, if you please, Major,” I said. “And leave us alone. I can always get more information out of these people if there is no third person present.”
“Oh, of course, of course!” he answered. “I’ll fetch her.”
“And after that I want to have another talk with you,” I said.
The parlourmaid was a smart and sensible-looking young woman, who had evidently been much upset by the recent tragic occurrence. I asked her to sit down and not to distress herself, and told her that I merely wished to ask her a few questions about the events of the morning.
“I think you were the last person to see Felicie alive?” I said. “Just tell me when that was.”
“It was from five to ten minutes before Miss Braye and Major Valentine came in, sir,” she answered. “Leastways, a very little time before. I saw her come in here and close the door. The next I heard was Miss Braye’s call for help.”
“Do you know why Felicie came in here?” I asked.
“No, sir, I don’t know,” the girl said. “But, then, she often came in here. It might be to fetch something, or to bring something.”
“Just so,” I said. “But in that case, she would scarcely have shut the door upon herself. You are sure there was no one in this room when she entered it?”
The girl stared at me in astonishment.
“I’m certain there wasn’t, sir,” she exclaimed. “I’d only just left it after laying the table for lunch. Besides, nobody could have come into the flat unless I’d let them in—that is, except Mrs. and Miss Bray with their keys. And this morning I only answered the door twice.”
“Who came?” I asked her.
“Nobody came, sir,” she replied, “at least, nobody to come in. One was a telegram for Major Valentine; the other was a fruiterer’s boy with those grapes.”
“Where was he from?” I said.
“I don’t know, sir,” replied Florence, staring at me as if she considered the question foolish. “I never even glanced at him. I just took the grapes and arranged them on the stand.”
“I see,” said I. “All right, that will do, thank you. Just ask Major Valentine to come to me.”
When the girl had left the room, I went over to the sideboard and picked up the great bunch of amber-tinted grapes by the stem. Looking it over minutely, I saw that an under tendril had been snapped off by somebody’s fingers—the ragged edges were still wet. I put the bunch back. Once again a chord of memory was struck. Where, recently, quite recently—within the last twenty-four hours—had I seen grapes likes those—yes, like that very identical bunch? Where?
Major Valentine came in—to find me in a brown study.
“Well?” he said anxiously.
I came out of my meditation with a start.
“Major,” I said, “I do not want—and there is no need—to intrude myself upon Miss Braye or upon her mother. But will you be kind enough to go to them and ask them—particularly—if either of them bought or ordered, or know anything whatever about those grapes? I say—particularly.”
Major Valentine had no sooner left the room than I suddenly remembered where and when I had seen grapes similar to those at which I was gazing. Only the previous afternoon I had had business in Covent Garden; arriving too early for my appointment, I had spent a few minutes in looking at the fruit and flowers in the centre arcade. And in one shop I had noticed a basket which contained some remarkably fine grapes, almost golden in hue, and over them a boldly-written placard: “Muscats from Alexandria.”
“That’s it!” I said to myself. “That’s where I saw them. Now, I wonder how many of them there are on the market?”
Major Valentine came back. He glanced at me and then at the grapes.
“Neither Mrs. nor Miss Braye ordered those grapes,” he said. “In fact, they know nothing about them. They didn’t even know they were in the house. I suppose they have been overlooked in the confusion.”
“The parlourmaid took them in not very long before you and Miss Braye returned,” I said. “But she does not know who sent them. Naturally, she thought that they had been ordered, and she did not even glance at the boy who brought them.”
“You attach some importance to them?” he said, looking a little surprised.
I motioned to him to take a seat, and I took one myself.
“Before I say anything on that point, Major,” I said, “I want to ask you a few questions. And I must remind you first of my great principle in dealing with all my clients. I told you of it, you will remember, when you came to me two years ago. I expect the fullest confidence and no reservations.”
He looked at me a little nervously, but he inclined his head.
“I will answer any question put to me, Mr. Campenhaye,” he said. “I will make no reservation.”
“Thank you,” said I. “Well, now, how soon after you found this girl dead was it that you telephoned to me?”
“Within twenty minutes,” he answered.
“Tell me briefly exactly what you did after the discovery,” I continued; “that is, up to the time of telephoning to me.”
“Well,” he said, “when we saw that we could not resuscitate Felicie I telephoned for a doctor. Then I telephoned to Tottenham Court Road police-station for the police. Presently I sent for you.”
“I quite understand your sending for a doctor,” I said. “That is what everybody does in such circumstances. But I do not understand your sending for the police. That is what one does not do in such circumstances—as a rule. Now, Major Valentine, is it not the fact that as soon as you discovered that the maid was dead you suspected foul play?”
“Yes,” he murmured. “Yes, that’s true.”
“Murder, in fact?” I said.
He nodded his head, and began to tug at his big moustache.
“Yes, yes!” he said. “Murder!”
“Am I wrong then in supposing that what was really in your mind was this: that the maid was an innocent victim, and that the intended victim was—Miss Braye?” I said.
He glanced at me quickly, and I saw that my supposition was correct. That was what was on his mind—and there was more, much more, behind it.
“Yes, you’re quite right there,” he said nervously. “Quite right, Mr. Campenhaye, quite right; though how you thought of it I’m hanged if I know.”
“I’m afraid you might easily be hanged, Major,” I said. “Now, then, answer me straight out—who is the other woman?”
This direct question made him jump to his feet, turn very red, and stare at me as if I were something superhuman.
“The—other—woman!” he exclaimed. “The”
“Shall I tell you what really is in your mind, Major Valentine?” I said, interrupting him. “What is there is the consciousness that there is another woman whom you may or may not have jilted in favour of Miss Braye; but who, at any rate, has threatened to be revenged on Miss Braye for getting you. Come, now?”
He sank limply into the seat and stared at me still more.
“Yes, that’s true also,” he said; “quite true.”
I leaned back in my chair.
“Now, Major, you had better tell me all about it,” I said. “And remember my first principle—no reservations.”
“Oh, I’ll make a clean breast,” he replied. “The fact is, Mr. Campenhaye—you know what life is—I have been alarmed since my engagement to Miss Braye because of some dire threats made against both of us by a certain lady who thinks that she has a claim upon me.”
“Just so,” said I. “Her name?”
The Major looked at me somewhat sheepishly.
“Olympia Bianchi,” he murmured, with a covert glance at the door.
“What, the Italian dancer?” I exclaimed.
“Yes,” he muttered, “exactly. For some reason or other Signorina Bianchi thinks that I have treated her badly, and as soon as my engagement to Miss Braye was announced, she favoured me with a letter in which she swore that the marriage should never take place. Since then I have had two more, still more threatening, and”
“You have been frightened,” I said, “badly frightened!”
“Well, I have,” he admitted. “Those Italian women are such—such devils. And they are adepts at poison, you know. I thought that the Bianchi might—might be up to all sorts of games—eh? Poison the wine, you know, or”
“Or the brandy, or the whisky,” I said rising. “Very good. Now, Major Valentine, don’t say a word of what we have talked about to a soul. And, to be practical, look in that cupboard and find me an empty biscuit-box. There is one? That’s good! Now, you may be mystified; but, you see, I put these grapes—which are muscats from Alexandria—in the box, and I now proceed to seal the box—thus. And now, Major Valentine, I am going, and you are to regard your lips as sealed, too, until you hear from me on the telephone, either here or at your chambers, or at your club, this evening.”
Then I went off, carrying the biscuit-box and its contents with me.
When I got out of Vienna Mansions I repaired in the first place to the house of a famous analytical chemist, who was a personal friend of mine, and, in the second, to the police surgeon who would make one of those present at the post-mortem examination on the body of the dead girl. With the great analyst I left the grapes; to the police surgeon I made a certain request. And these things done, I set off to Covent Garden.
I was by this time quite certain that the French maid had been poisoned, and that the poison had been conveyed in the grapes; I was just as certain that the poison was not intended for her but for her mistress. It seemed to me that matters were becoming very clear. The poisoned grapes arrived at the flat a little before lunch, and were taken in by the parlourmaid, who immediately arranged them on the sideboard; she was no doubt well accustomed to seeing little presents of this nature arrive for Miss Braye. Then Felicie came upon the scene—very probably bent upon the errand which Major Valentine had suggested. Felicie saw the magnificent bunch of grapes; Felicie was tempted. She snapped off a few grapes from amongst the thickest part of the bunch and ate them. And then Felicie died—died as swiftly and as surely as people do die when they are poisoned by a very subtle poisoner. There had been no bungling about it; it was the work of a master hand. One moment, nay, one second, Felicie had been alive—in the course of the next Felicie was dead.
And now the question was—Who sent the grapes? Certainly Major Valentine was quite right in saying that Italian women have a reputation for being adepts at poisoning, and it was obvious that he thought the Bianchi meant to carry out her dire threats of vengeance. But, personally, I was not greatly inclined to that theory. I had had the pleasure of meeting the Signorina Bianchi two or three times in private life, and, queen of the terpsichorean art as she certainly was while on the stage, she did not strike me as being remarkably clever or brilliant when off it; she was, in fact, a very good average specimen of her countrywomen, with abundant capacities of love and hate, but not, I thought, of cunning, which would amount to skill. Now, whoever had poisoned those grapes had done so in a highly skilful, not to say extremely scientific, manner.
However, there was no good to be done by speculating overmuch on that point just then. My object in going to Covent Garden was to find out, if possible, what quantity of these particular grapes had been on the market on the previous day; my own impression, from what I recollected of the price, was that the supply could only have been limited. It would narrow down the limits of the field of enquiry if I found this particular out; the next thing to do would be to hit on the particular shop from which the grapes were sold and to endeavour to run down the purchaser. That they had been delivered from any shop direct, I did not believe for a moment; my own theory was that the poisoner had given them to some boy, picked up in the neighbourhood of Vienna Mansions, and had then disappeared.
I made two or three inquiries in Covent Garden before I reached the shop in which I myself had noticed the muscats from Alexandria only the previous day, and I speedily learnt that the supply of those particular grapes had been very limited. Going on to the shop itself and glancing into the window to see who was within it, I was suddenly brought face to face with a remarkable object. Hanging from the central rail of the window was a large sheet of paper, on the upper portion of which some hand had printed the word “Found” in very large, rough letters. Also dependent from the rail, and backed by the white paper, hung a medallion about the size of a half-crown, and set in gold. I drew nearer to examine it, and found myself gazing at a beautifully-painted miniature of one of my old masters, the late Dr. Allison, who had been well known to me in my student days at University College.
There was nothing on the sheet of paper beyond the word “Found,” and it needed no great amount of intuition to come to the conclusion that the medallion had been picked up in the shop. I went inside, fully intending to ask some information about the portrait, simply because I had known Dr. Allison; but first I attended to my own business, which was to find out about the grape supply of the previous day. And suddenly I was face to face with a new situation, nothing surprising, as anyone who has followed my profession is well aware.
“No, they were very scarce, very scarce indeed, those muscats were yesterday,” said the shopman. Then he added, with a nod and a smile: “It was the lady as I sold my little lot to as dropped that portrait what I’ve hung up in the window. I thought she’d have been in for it before now. It’s mounted in real gold, is that—at least, I take it to be real gold.”
He reached into the window for the medallion portrait, unhooked it, and placed it in my hand. I turned it over; on the back was an inscription:
“Honoria, from her Father.”
“Oh, yes! this is solid gold,” I said, handing it back. “I suppose it’s quite safe in your window?”
“As the Bank of England,” he said, replacing his find. “You see, the lady’ll no doubt come looking about at all the places she’d been to, and when she sees it in the window she’ll jump for joy. I know it was her as bought the muscats, ’cause I noticed it on a chain as she wore round her neck. Found it lyin’ in one of them baskets when I was closing last night.”
I went out of the shop, certain that I had lighted upon a clue. I had been sure—sure to the point of absolute assurance—that the grapes which I had seen on Miss Braye’s sideboard were those which I had noticed and admired in this very window the day before. I was convinced now that the woman who had bought them was the poisoner—if my poison theory proved to be correct. And—my old friend and master, Dr. Allison, had in his time been the leading expert on toxicology. What mystery was this? What had Honoria, who was obviously his daughter, to do with Miss Braye and Major Valentine?
I got on to the telephone at once. Major Valentine was still at Vienna Mansions. Within twenty minutes he joined me under the church clock in Covent Garden, and I gave him some instructions.
“Just walk down the right-hand side of the arcade, Major,” I said. “You will come to a shop in the middle of which a medallion portrait is hanging. Take a good look at it, and then come back to me.”
He returned in a minute or two, looking surprised.
“Do you recognise the portrait?” I asked him.
“Certainly!” he answered. “It’s a miniature of my late uncle and godfather, old Dr. Allison. What’s more, I know to whom it belongs. It belongs to his daughter. I’d have gone in and told the shop-people so, but you asked me to come back to you at once.”
This took me aback. Now the circle was narrowing! But what was I yet to hear from Major Valentine?
“Belongs to the late Dr. Allison’s daughter, eh?” I said. “Is—is her name Honoria?”
The Major stared at me in surprise.
“Yes,” he answered. “Yes, her name is Honoria. But”
I drew Major Valentine a little out of the crowd of pedestrians.
“Listen!” I said. “The woman who dropped that medallion in the shop where you have just seen it is the woman who sent the muscats to Miss Braye!”
That I was yet to learn more from Major Valentine I was assured by the effect of this announcement. He turned white to his lips, and, big and strong man though he was, he staggered a little, and put out his right hand as if to find some support.
“My God!” he exclaimed. “I—I was engaged to Honoria Allison!”
Now I was coming to it! I clutched his arm and moved him away round the corner into King Street.
“Now, Major,” I said quietly, “you remember our compact. No reservations! Come, now, let me hear all about it. When did you—for I am pretty certain it was you—break off this engagement?”
“About—about a month ago!” he muttered.
“Why did you break it off?” I went on. “Why?”
The Major made an effort and pulled himself together, but it was plain that he had suffered a great shock and a great surprise.
“Because she was such an awfully jealous woman!” he exclaimed. “I began to see that I shouldn’t have a moment’s freedom or liberty. She was so very exacting, and”
“Just so,” said I. “That’s enough just now, Major. By the by, I think I have heard that Miss Allison used to help her father in his very interesting experiments in poisons?”
The Major, who was mopping his forehead as we walked along the street, nodded vehemently.
“Yes, yes, she did!” he answered. “And she experiments still; she’s kept the old man’s laboratory on. My God! Campenhaye, you don’t think she did this—you don’t?”
“That is exactly what I do think then, Major Valentine!” I replied. “What else can I think? You tell me that you have jilted this lady—you tell me that she is of an exceedingly jealous temperament. Jealousy and revenge usually go hand in hand. I naturally conclude that she inclined to revenge. Then you tell me that she is an expert on poison—and I am already aware that she sent the grapes to Vienna Mansions. It will not take much to convince a jury of her guilt, I think.”
“A jury?” he gasped. “Oh, I say, will it come to that?”
“Most likely,” said I. “But, come, it’s no use hanging about here. You had better come with me, Major.”
I got him into a taxi-cab at the top of Bedford Street and bade the driver take us to the place where I had asked the police surgeon to meet me. He was rather late in turning up; when he arrived he looked somewhat mystified. He glanced dubiously at my companion.
“You can speak freely before Major Valentine,” I said. “In a certain sense, he is as much interested in the case as we are. Now, what is the result of the autopsy?”
“Well,” he replied, shaking his head, “there’s no manifest proof of any cause of death! The organs were sound and healthy—in fact, it’s a mystery.”
“No trace of poison?” I asked.
“No immediate sign,” he answered. “Of course, Dr. Inverkeith will make further search; but he says he doesn’t expect to find any trace. Frankly, the three of us are mystified.”
“One question, then, before we go,” I said. “Had the girl been eating grapes?”
He nodded, and looked at me as if he would have liked to question me, but I said “Good-night,” and took Major Valentine away. Outside I tapped him on the arm.
“I am beginning to think that the poisoner is a person of an almost diabolical ingenuity, Major,” I said. “You had better prepare yourself for all sorts of eventualities.”
The Major groaned heavily.
“This is awful!” he said. “It’s the worst corner I’ve ever been in. Where are we going now?”
I took him to the house of my friend, the famous analyst. The great man had us shown at once into his presence. He was obviously in a seventh heaven of delight.
He began to talk rapidly as soon as I had managed to make him understand who Major Valentine was. Even then he was not particularly concerned about the Major or about Felicie’s death—his mind, like that of your true investigator, was running on a new discovery.
“I say, I say, Campenhaye!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands. “I have had a most exciting afternoon with those grapes! By gad, I haven’t enjoyed myself so much for ages! My dear fellow, those grapes are charged with the most subtle poison I have ever come across!”
“Just so,” said I. “Well, and what is the poison?”
The great man threw up his hands.
“Oh, my dear Campenhaye!” he exclaimed. “I wish I knew! I have tried every test I have at my disposal, but I have not been able to find out what it is. But I will go on—I will go on! But as to its effects—oh, my God! I always have some live stock here, as you know, for experiments. Well, I threw one of your beautiful grapes to a dog who would snatch at anything; he just lay down and died in exactly thirty seconds. Then I drew off the juice of another grape and injected it into a rabbit; he died in precisely seventeen seconds. Since then”
“For God’s sake, sir, stop!” exclaimed Major Valentine. “Campenhaye, let’s get out—let me, at any rate, get out of this. I can’t stand it!”
I made a hurried and whispered communication to the analyst and took the Major away. But once outside the house I spoke plainly and perhaps a little sternly.
“Now, Major Valentine,” I said, “there is only one thing to do now. You must go to your cousin. And I shall go with you.”
He flinched for a moment, and then threw up his head.
“I’d rather face a crowd of niggers on the rant!” he said. “But you’re quite right, Campenhaye.”
Miss Allison lived in South Kensington—all the way there the Major kept silence. When at last the taxi-cab drew up before a big, gloomy house he groaned again; the events of the day were certainly not being pleasant for Major Valentine.
It seemed a long time before anybody answered the bell. There came a woman who was obviously a caretaker. Was Miss Allison at home? No, Miss Allison wasn’t at home, nor likely to be, seeing as she’d gone to foreign parts for the rest of the winter. When had she gone? Why, that very day as ever was—leastways, she, the caretaker, had come in about noon, and she was gone then.
Major Valentine heaved a great sigh of relief as we went away.
“Thank God!” he said. “I—I hope I shall never hear of her again!”
That pious hope has so far been fulfilled. For the authorities, not being able to find any trace of poison, arranged a verdict that allayed all suspicion as to the cause of Felicie’s death, and my friend, the famous analyst, at my request, held his tongue. He, too, was baffled. Only one person in the world knows the secret, and she has disappeared, utterly and entirely, and will never speak. But every year some hand lays a cross of white flowers on the dead woman’s grave; my own idea is that this action is the expression of a strange atonement.